erotica

Bimbofying The Brat

Meeting Beth was the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, meeting Beth and her daughter Katie, but I’ll get to that later.

I’m Bill. A few years ago my life was going nowhere. I’d been single for a long long time, I was close to hitting fifty and I’d pretty much given up on having a family life. My work as a software engineer was going great and the money was okay. I had a good house in a reasonably safe neighborhood. But I was lonely. Beth changed my life.

We met at a works party, one of those awful, self-conscious things, where everyone stands around not knowing what to say to one another, until the drink begins to flow. I bumped into her at the bar and on the spur of the moment, for something to say, asked her if she wanted a drink. To my surprise, she said yes.

Beth was a teacher, had been divorced for a while, and had lost her confidence with dating. I had never had much confidence to begin with, so we had that in common. It turned out that we also both loved 1940s movies, the countryside, and Italian food. I asked her on a date, she said yes, and amazingly, I didn’t screw it up.

My first few months with Beth were incredible. We could talk for hours, and the sex was incredible. We’d meet at my place or a hotel. Once we even did it in my car. She explained after one particularly hot session, that she had been starved of sex for years and wanted to make up for lost time. Well, we certainly did that, and, even after we were married and they moved into my place, it continued.

We had a great family life. As I worked from home, I could take care of the housework and when Beth and Katie came home, I’d cook for them, then we’d spend the evenings together. At weekends, we went for long walks, or went to the movies or had friends over. It was perfect. Well, almost perfect.

The only thing wrong with this movie was Beth’s dwindling interest in sex. It happened slowly, and started with excuses. She would say she was feeling ill or that we couldn’t because Katie was still awake or that she had an early start the next day and sex was too draining. Eventually, sex was something that happened at weekends, then every month, then once or twice a year, and by the time Katie was in her final year at school, it had virtually stopped.

I didn’t blame her, particularly. I knew that these things can happen in relationships, that it was something that couples needed to work through. But every time I raised it with Beth she shut the conversation down. Eventually, I became so frustrated that I started watching porn during the day. That was a big mistake. They say porn can be addictive, and they’re right. My work began to suffer as my appetite for porn grew. I couldn’t stop myself. I felt guilty about it, sure, but that wasn’t the only thing I felt guilty about.

Katie was my other guilty secret. She was eighteen. She was tall, willowy, with long blonde hair and a tanned, lithe body. Her breasts were perfect: round, perky, and when she ran through the house in just a little top and shorts – no bra – I had to close my eyes so that she wouldn’t see me staring at her breasts. Seriously, the way they jiggled under her tight tops was incredible. She didn’t seem to have any clothes that were not short, skin-tight or low-cut. One dinner, she sat directly opposite me and I could see her nipples clearly through her white tee. I sat there, unable to look up from my food because I knew I would stare.

It didn’t help that she appeared to have no self-consciousness. She had always been precocious – in every way – but she also seemed to enjoy showing off her body, or at least, felt very relaxed about it. In fact, I barely saw her wearing more than two items of clothing. She had the habit of working out in just a pair of yoga pants and a lycra top, or wandering through the house after showering, wearing just a white towel.

The combination of being sex-starved and in close proximity to Katie was too much for me. One night, I woke in the middle of an erotic dream about my step-daughter. My cock was rock hard and my heart was pounding. I sneaked out of bed to the bathroom, and there, I stroked myself to orgasm. I couldn’t help it. I crept back to bed, slipped between the sheets, and lay there, listening to Beth snoring. As I lay, wallowing in guilt, I made a decision. I had to resolve this situation, one way or another.

The next day, I deleted all of the links to porn on my computer, cleared my browser history and started my search for solutions. As Beth didn’t want to talk about our sexual problems, it was down to me to do the work. I logged on to some forums for marital problems and laid out my issue. I got loads of responses, many from women, offering suggestions and I began to feel optimistic that this was something we could work through.

But how would I broach the subject with Beth? She seemed certain that there was no problem and never wanted to even discuss the issue. As I was pondering how to go about it, I had a message from a guy who was a member of one of the sites. His name was Brad, and he sounded pretty sleazy. He said that in my case, Beth was the problem and that I should consider an affair. I told him I would never do that. So then he suggested an alternative.

Brad sent me a link to a site that he said would change my life. Naturally, I was skeptical. But I was in between work tasks at the time, so I clicked on the link, which took me to a site for Marital Intimacy Solutions. The solutions, it turned out, were pharmaceutical: specifically a pill that it was claimed could turn the least amorous woman into a sex-obsessed bimbo.

Obviously, I was appalled. The site looked dodgy, and the pictures of sexually-provocative blonde bimbos, that had clearly been taken from porn shows, were rather degrading, though I could feel my cock stirring as I gazed at them. Surely it was wrong to use drugs to solve this problem? But then, I reasoned, that the pills probably wouldn’t even work. I could always test them on myself, I thought, if I didn’t want to give them to Beth. They weren’t that expensive, so I ordered a packet, and soon forgot about it.

A week later the drugs arrived. When I opened the plain parcel, the packaging inside depicted another blond sex goddess lying semi-naked and pouting. I quickly ripped up the package and stuffed the pills into my pocket.

All day I pondered what to do? Was I really going to do this? Was it fair? By that evening, I had decided that I wasn’t going to do it, that was, I had decided until Beth came through the door. She had been at work all day but she still looked gorgeous. I wanted her so much, wanted to feel her pressing her enormous breasts against me, wrapping her smooth legs around me, pushing her tongue into my mouth, like we did when we were first together.

She asked me to fetch her a glass of wine, and I made up my mind, there and then. Shakily, I poured the glass of Cabernet and was about to pop one of the pills out of its casing when Beth came into the kitchen. Quickly I dropped the pill into the medicine draw.

“Oh honey, by the way, I have to go to a teaching conference this weekend. I’ll be leaving in the morning. You don’t mind do you? I’ll be back Monday.”

“Of course not,” I replied, smiling nervously.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, kissing me on the cheek and returning to the living room. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. Thank goodness I hadn’t given her that pill.

“Honey, can you bring my wine now?” she called from the other room.

“Just coming,” I replied, reaching into the medicine drawer without looking and grabbing the packet of pills.

*  *  *  *

I dropped the pills into the drawer by my side of the bed while Beth was in the bathroom. I had hoped that perhaps the two glasses of wine she’d drunk that evening would have relaxed her and maybe stirred something in her, but when I kissed her lightly on the shoulder, she had murmured something about having to be up early the next day and moved away, so I rolled over and soon fell asleep.

I woke with the sun streaming into our bedroom. I turned over and saw an empty space. The wardrobe was open and some of her clothes were missing. I couldn’t hear anyone moving around. Beth had gone. I sighed, turning to lie on my back, instinctively slipping my fingers into my shorts. I was hard, as usual, though I couldn’t remember what I’d dreamt about.

Suddenly I heard a soft, light tapping on the door. I didn’t have time to reply before the door opened and Katie sauntered in. My cock instantly stiffened. As usual she was wearing a flimsy little top – a grey one with a pink Barbie on it – and a tiny pair of shorts. She walked over to the bed, smiling, and slumped down onto it.

“Hey, good morning. Do you mind if we hang out for a bit?” she said, kneeling on the bed, and tilting her head at me.

“N…no…not at all,” I replied, shifting in the bed, hoping that my erection wasn’t obvious. She smiled and thanked me.

“It’s just I’m really stressed with all the exams and everything. I was up late last night and I dropped another tab of adderall but it doesn’t seem to be working.”

I tried not to stare at the ample curves of her young breasts that were clearly visible through her tee but my cock was rock hard now.

“Well…if there’s anything I can do to help…”

She smiled and put her hand down onto the bed.

“Oh thanks, you’re the best. Older guys are so wise. I guess that’s why I have a thing for them,” she said, smiling.

I couldn’t reply. Her hand was just an inch or two away from the bulge in the bedsheet that betrayed my erection. As I watched, my throat dry, she slid her slender hand up the sheet until it was almost at my bulge. I looked up into her eyes. Her pupils were dilated and between her parted lips I could see the tip of her tongue.

At that moment, a loud musical ringtone burst out. Katie closed her eyes.

“Oh that’s probably Tiffany. I have to get that.”

I watched her flounce off the bed and hurry out of the room and closed my eyes. I adjusted position in the bed, trying to push my erection down. What had happened to her? Why was she behaving like this? And then it dawned on me.

Hurriedly, I opened the bedside draw and pulled out the set of pink bimbo tablets. Except the row of tablets in my hand were not pink. I was holding a set of adderall tablets. If I had the adderall, that must mean that Katie had…

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The Queen’s Concubine

I couldn’t tell how long I had been in that filthy dungeon. I had drifted in and out of sleep a few times, but every time I woke up I was greeted with the same dismal, damp surroundings. My ragged floor-length dress didn’t keep me warm and the iron manacles at my wrists and ankles were making my skin sore.

I was the only prisoner in that cell, and the loneliness added to my despair. I was locked deep underneath the Queen’s castle, with no food or water. I was cold, hungry and hopeless and every so often I heard a blood-curdling scream that made me tremble.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside and I froze. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock. Instinctively, I huddled back into my corner of the dungeon. The heavy stone door opened slowly. Two of the Queen’s accursed guards came in and stood either side of the doorway. They were followed by a haughty-looking woman in a long red robe. She wore elaborate make-up and her hair was tied up tight atop her head.

”Is this the peasant girl?”

”Yes ma’am.”

She looked at me and sniffed.

“Scrawny little thing isn’t she. Still, the Queen’s appetite is insatiable these days. Take her upstairs. My servants will prepare her.”

As the guards drew close to me, I hunched up and tried to back away further into my corner. When would my nightmare end?

*  *  *  *

My name is Alina. I was born to a simple family in a small village on the edge of our nation. The village is a long way from the capital and close to the border with Slizea. A long time ago, the Slizeans had a great empire, built through kidnapping and enslaving people from the neighboring territories, including our village.

My parents taught me that the Slizeans were cruel, immoral people, who cared nothing for right and wrong, and only understood violence and desire. They told me terrible stories of what happened to young girls from our village when the Slizeans attacked. Many of our girls were taken, captured, dragged back to the castles and palaces of the Slizeans and never seen or heard from again. My parents taught me that if the alarm sounded to signal a Slizean attack, I was to drop everything, not to look back and to run into the forest outside the village, there to hide until the danger was past.

Yet none of these raids had happened in my lifetime. Our village was kept safe by patrols sent by our king to guard the borderlands. Those of us who had never seen a Slizean raid began to doubt that they had ever happened, or at least, suspected that the elders were exaggerating about how terrible they were.

But in my twentieth year, things changed. A new ruler came to the throne in Slizea, a Queen known only as the Dark One. She was reputed to be the most terrible, evil and insatiable ruler that Slizea had ever known. Her armies soon began to attack our lands, and gradually, the patrols that protected our village became less and less frequent.

I still wasn’t worried. It all seemed so far away, the war and the Dark One. My parents and their neighbors sat around the fire at night frightening one another with stories of the Slizeans, but I ignored it. I thought they were being foolish. I was young, free and happy.

One day, I was carrying a pail of milk from the village milking shed to our hut when I heard a distant horn sounding. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, but then I heard screaming and saw villagers starting to run. One of them shouted that the Slizeans were coming.

Dropping my pail, I turned and started to run. But I wasn’t quick enough. I had barely reached the open grassland behind our village, when I heard the thunder of hooves. Over my shoulder I caught a glimpse of black riders and huge horses. As I tried to run, I felt something wrap around my legs and tighten, causing me to sprawl onto the ground.

I struggled desperately, shaking my whole body, but I couldn’t escape. Two black-armourer soldiers had dismounted and were turning me over, tying rough, tight rope around my wrists, pulling on the rope so hard that I screamed out. I tried to shout for help, but they laughed at me, and dragged me along the ground. Eventually, I was lifted up and thrown onto the back of a horse. Lashed to the saddle, they galloped back through the village. I saw houses and people and other soldiers as we sped by, but it was so disorientating that I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, we had stopped. Two more soldiers lifted me off the horse and dragged me to a wooden cage on the back of a cart. I was lifted up and thrown inside, along with three other girls from my village. They were all too frightened to speak, but we all hugged one another, with tears in our eyes as the cart began to roll away, rumbling out of our village and across the border, heading into the black heart of Slizea.

*  *  *  *

I was grateful to be free of the manacles but I was weak and stumbled more than once as I was led up a flight of stone steps to the upper levels of the castle. A door was opened onto a room with straw on the floor and a roaring fire. On the fire was a black cauldron full of something boiling and in the centre of the room was a giant bowl made of polished white stone. Two servant girls, with long blonde hair and delicate white gowns were busy with the cauldron, but stopped what they were doing to stare at me.

“What is that?” I muttered, pointing at the bath in fear.

The courtier shook her head.

“You peasants are disgusting. That is a bath.”

She clapped her hands and the servants hurried over.

“See to it that she is clean and presentable for her majesty. You have one hour.”

With that, the courtier turned on her heels and left me alone with the servant girls. They both smiled at me. They were tall and clean-skinned and seemed to be well-practiced in dealing with village girls. The first servant led me to the white bowl and told me to climb into it, which I did, with some help. I watched the other girl take water from the cauldron and mix it with water from a pail into a second bucket.

Distracted, I didn’t notice what the second servant girl was doing, until I felt a tugging at the waist of my dress. Before I could react, she had unfastened it and the dress was slipping off my shoulders. I tried to hold it on, but it was too late. The dress fell away, and she pulled it clear of me. I was standing naked in the room, feeling the combination of cold air and the heat from the fire bathing my skin. I tried to cover my nakedness, but the servant girls didn’t seem to notice it. The first one brought the bucket of water over and then they both began to bathe me, tipping one bucket of water after another over me. Between each dousing, they rubbed fine-smelling oils and potions against my body. At first I recoiled in shame at their touch, but they continued with their work and I got used to it. It reminded me of how my mother used to bathe me, in the bucket we shared with our neighbors.

When they had finished with the bathing, I climbed out of the bath and they gave me a soft cloth to dry myself. Then they handed me my new clothes, which was nothing more than a single black leather tunic. As the first servant girl pulled the cord at the front of it tight, pressing my breasts together, I breathed in sharply. The tunic was so short, it barely reached halfway down my thigh. Worse still, there were no other garments. I was completely naked underneath it. It was awful! It was immoral! I couldn’t wear something like that!

“I can’t wear this!” I protested.

“It is her majesty’s preference,” said the first servant girl, smiling.

“What…what will she do to me?”

The second servant girl giggled.

“You will find out.”

“Beware her kiss,” said the other girl.

I did not have time to ask what she meant, because just then the door opened and the courtier reappeared. She looked me up and down, then nodded.

“Good. Follow me,” she said.

I was escorted out of the room, feeling the cold air against my legs, against my half-exposed breasts, and between my thighs. I felt so ashamed. That strangers were able to gawp and gaze at my body was a great disgrace.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was led up another flight of stairs to a high wooden door, watched over by two more black-armored soldiers.

“We have brought her Majesty’s prize,” said the courtier. One of the guards leered at me and opened the door. The courtier nodded at me to enter. I took a few, cautious steps forward and then heard the heavy wooden door slam closed behind me.

The room was huge and warmed by an enormous roaring fire set in one wall. The floor was covered in deep, luxurious rugs. Off to one side was a table piled with plates of food, upon which my gaze lingered, longingly. And dominating the centre of the room was a large, imposing bed, covered in red silk sheets, upon which reclined the Queen of Slizea.

She said nothing for a moment or two, looking at me with her head tilted to one side, until finally, she spoke, her voice ringing loudly in that room.

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My Swinging Confession

My name is Helen and I guess you could say that this is my confession.

I live in a respectable street of a respectable suburb upstate. I won’t tell you exactly where, but you can probably already imagine the place. A secluded road with neat, comfortably-apportioned houses; each house with its own immaculately trimmed and tended lawn; pure white picket fence; wide, welcoming drive way and delicate floral borders.

The Avenue. It could not be more suburban and stereotypical. But I, we, like it here. I live at number four, with my husband, Jack. We married five years ago, when we were both just out of college and we are still very much in love. In many ways, our life in the Avenue for the first five years was idyllic. I worked as a librarian at the local adult college and Jack worked as a software developer. We worked hard, we spent our evenings at the movies, or curled up on a sofa together. We could afford long holidays, we gardened, attended charitable functions. Sometimes we went to a baseball game, sometimes we took in a show. Life was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. There was one thing that nagged at me, one little persistent, consuming, burning itch that I longed to scratch. It was something that I didn’t dare share with Jack for a long time. For around four years, in fact, until it just came out.

I had drunk too much Merlot. We were in bed, I had slipped out of my panties while Jack was in the bathroom and had been stroking myself, teasing my nipples, my clit, with my fingers and feeling like such a naughty, filthy, wanton slut. So I told him. When he came out of the bathroom, with just a towel wrapped around him, I told him my dirty secret. I told him I wanted to see him fuck another woman, in our bed. I just blurted it out.

He was silent. I could hear my heart thudding. Then he smiled. He came and sat on the bed, kissed me full on the lips, and then nodded.

“That would be fun,” he said.

The next morning I asked him if he remembered what I’d told him. His wicked grin told me that he had. At first I was ashamed and embarrassed, but he held my hand and said that he was honored that I had felt able to share something so personal and that he loved me. And after all, I told myself, it was just a fantasy. There was nothing wrong with fantasy.

So I got over my embarrassment, and for a few days, the relief of unburdening myself was glorious. It felt so naughty, so wicked, so transgressive. I had bared my innermost desires, exposed them to the man I love and he hadn’t flinched. I felt like the kind of dangerous, disreputable girl I had always fantasized about being, but at the same time it also felt as though I had found a new level of love and intimacy with Jack.

That feeling would only grow deeper the following Saturday, when Jack, after three whiskies, took my hand as we sat on our bed and told me that it would be hot if I was with another man. It was dark in our room when he said those thrilling, dangerous words, and I saw the fear in his eyes, his fear that I might be horrified. But I wasn’t horrified. Not at all. Though I had never really thought about it before, the idea stirred something in me. Yes, I wanted that too.

Jack told me that he loved it when I moaned and gasped with pleasure and he wanted to see me like that, with another man, like I was starring in an erotic film. He wanted me to gaze into his eyes as I was fucked by a stranger. The way he described it was so hot. I asked him to tell me again and he did, embroidering the fantasy with all kinds of erotic talk, dirty words, wild ideas, all of which sent shivers of pure lust through me.

We made love that night, as passionately as we ever had, at least, before we met the Porters. Three, four, maybe five weekends in a row, we got drunk together and told one another all about our dirty secret fantasies, embellishing the stories with ever more outlandish ideas, until we had driven each other wild and then we would fuck over and over until we were exhausted.

Over the weeks, the heat of that passion grew less intense. We spoke of it less frequently, and the novelty and thrill of being open about it faded. But the itch remained. That didn’t fade. It was always there, whenever I touched myself, whenever Jack touched me, whenever I closed myself and surrendered to the all-consuming fire of my orgasm. The thought of Jack and another woman and me watching, sitting naked at the end of the bed as he fucked another woman, sensing their sweating, glistening bodies as he made her scream. Oh I wanted that so much.

I’m not sure where it came from. I guess a skilled psychiatrist could plumb the depths of my subconscious and drag out the truth, but I didn’t really care. All I knew was that the thought of Jack with another woman, a hot woman, a beautiful, sexy, gorgeous woman, was both frightening and gloriously exciting. Perhaps it was the forbidden aspect. That isn’t how it is supposed to be. A woman is supposed to be jealous of her husband’s affection. Perhaps it was that risk. What if he enjoyed having sex with her more than me? The risk that he would leave. The risk that I would lose everything. It was partly that, but it was also the idea of watching it, watching Jack being passionate, the writhing limbs, the forbidden, transgressive sex in our bed.

But after a few weeks, Jack stopped referring to it, and as we had never got round to working out how to arrange it, I resigned myself to it remaining as just a glorious fantasy.

Around six months after I had confided in him, Jack came home late from work one day and gave me some bad news. Apparently, we had to entertain his boss, Michael Porter, and his wife. I groaned when he told me. We don’t do a lot of entertaining. Sure, we have friends over from time to time and family, but those are all people we know, people we don’t have to impress. The Porters were different. But according to Jack, there was no way round it. He was desperate to get the promotion to head of section, and he needed to improve his relationship with his boss.

So that Saturday night, I slipped into my tightest black party dress – my only black party dress – which was much shorter than I remembered. As I tugged at the hem to try to pull it down at least over my mid-thigh, Jack came into the bedroom and whistled.

“Is it too much?” I asked

“It’s perfect,” he replied, patting me on the ass and kissing me on my neck, which sent a little tingle of pleasure all the way through me.

The Porters were punctual, and brought two bottles of expensive wine with them, which I gladly swapped for the rather cheap bottle I had bought. They were older than us, maybe late forties, but both obviously worked out. Michael Porter was tall, greying a little at the temples, but square-jawed with big shoulders and a wide, welcoming smile. I found myself blushing a little the first few times he turned the smile on me, like a nervous girl at a high school dance.

Anna was a little taller than me, with short dark hair, but the kind of body that I have always been envious of. Curvy to the point of being overtly sexy, her breasts heaved in a tight red velvet dress, and she swayed when she walked. Her sparkling smile was kind of captivating too, and it was obvious that Jack was having trouble not staring at her chest whenever he looked at her. I didn’t mind that. I thought it was cute, and told myself I would tease him about it later.

Dinner went well. The Porters were good company, charming, but not showy. They talked about their holiday home in Florida, their wedding, and both had a store of anecdotes from their previous lives. Michael had been a footballer, while Anna had done a little modeling. The wine was flowing and the conversation was easy when Michael asked if we’d like to play a little poker.

As it happened, we had played quite a lot while we were in college, and the idea sounded fun. Jack dug out some old poker chips from the back of the wardrobe, I cleared away the plates and soon we were sitting around the dining table playing a little Texas Hold ‘Em.

Jack, Michael and I were playing pretty well, winning our share of hands, but Anna, who seemed to be drinking a little more than the rest of us, was soon down to her last chip. When she turned over a pair of Kings and I showed three twos, she laughed and pushed her chip across the table to me.

“I guess I’m done,” she said, laughing, casually resting her hand on Jack’s arm. He was a little flustered, which I thought was so cute. I smiled across the table at him and he smiled back, before blushing and looking at his cards.

“Oh now, we can let you stay in. But you have to offer a little something,” said Michael, dealing the next hand. Anna looked at him with a smirk.

“Oh really? And what did you have in mind?”

Michael smiled and said nothing.

“Well I don’t have any valuable jewelry to play with, so I guess I’ll just have to strip,” she said, pouting a little.

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Showing Her Who’s Boss: Forced Lesbian Submission

*This book has been ADULT listed by Amazon.  It will only be found through my links and Author’s page.

My name is Tina Strong. I’m the CEO of GlobeCorp. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of the world’s fastest-growing corporations. I oversee operations that employ half a million people. I’ve been featured in Time and profiled in every business magazine in the world. My contacts book includes world leaders, billionaires, religious leaders, Hollywood producers, UN officials; I’m one of the most well-connected women in international business.

As you can imagine, I’m used to getting my own way. It’s always been like that. I guess I was quite a spoilt girl. My daddy was an oil executive and he used to give me everything I wanted. The other kids were jealous. They would call me Lady Strong. But it didn’t bother me. Yes I had advantages, but I worked damn hard, at school, at college and in business and I’ve reached the top faster than all of my peers. Want to know how I did it?

I have high expectations of myself and I apply those standards to others. I can’t stand inefficiency, incompetence or idleness. If you want to work for Tina Strong, you’ve got to be the best. I learned early on in business that you’ve got to be tough; you’ve got to dominate every meeting, every conversation. And that’s what I do. I know people call me a bitch behind my back. I don’t care. I know that I’m in charge and I am dominant in every situation, with everyone I meet.

Well, almost everyone. As with any rule there is always an exception. Let me tell you about mine.

It started about a year ago when I broke in a new personal assistant. I go through a lot of PAs. What can I say? I have high standards. A new PA doesn’t shape up, I cut them loose very quickly, and I make no apologies for that. GlobeCorp can’t afford to carry passengers. Of course, the downside of the high PA turnover is that I’ve built up a reputation among the agencies and none of them will take my calls. Fortunately, a business friend of mine, Tom, was able to recommend a PA, Maria, who had worked for him before. When I asked him on the phone what she was like, he hesitated, and then he said just one word. “Ruthless.”

I didn’t understand what Tom meant. Ruthlessness isn’t a quality that you need in a PA. He had also suggested that Maria was attractive. This didn’t bother me. I’m not jealous when it comes to other women, in fact having a stunning PA can be an asset. Most of the people I had to deal with were men, and men are always knocked off balance by hot women.

Two hours later, Maria was standing in my office. Tom had not done her justice. She was more than attractive, she was gorgeous. Shorter than me, with long, dark, silky hair, a perfect petite body, pouting lips, high cheekbones and she was wearing the shortest skirt I’ve seen in an office environment. There was also something strange about her. Every PA I’ve interviewed has been nervous in my presence, but Maria wasn’t at all nervous. She smiled throughout. In fact, it was more of a smirk than a smile. But I was busy, so I overlooked it.

It turned out that Maria’s effectiveness as a PA was in inverse proportion to her looks. I could see through my office window that there was a steady stream of men finding pretexts to come up to my floor and gawp at her. I didn’t particularly appreciate that, because rather than putting them in their place, she seemed actively to encourage it. I heard her giggling and flirting more than once but I let it go for the first day or two. That wasn’t the only thing I let go.

Maria’s phone manner was awful. The emails she sent on my behalf were poorly written and rudely addressed. She didn’t seem to know where any of the files were, and often I would have to buzz her three times before she bothered to reply. When she double-booked me for a meeting on her third day, and didn’t even apologize when I pointed out her error, I decided I would have to let her go. That evening, after I’d taken my last appointment, I buzzed her to come through into my office. There was no reply. I buzzed again, twice more. Still nothing.

Irritated, I marched through into her office, but she was nowhere to be seen. I called through to Lisa, one of the other secretaries to find out what had happened to Maria. Lisa told me that my new PA was drinking coffee with Michael, one of the sales directors. By this time I was fuming, so I marched into Michael’s office. To say he was surprised to see me was an understatement. He was sitting at his desk, but seemed slightly disheveled and had also turned a bright shade of pink.

“Oh, hi Miss Strong, I…er…can I help you?”

“Have you seen Maria?”

“Maria?”

“My PA.”

“Er…no…”

“That’s not really true is it,” said a voice from underneath his desk. Moments later, Maria emerged, refastening the top button of her blouse and straightening her hair. Mortified, Michael began fumbling with his pants as Maria calmly walked around the desk to stand in front of me.

“My office! Now!”

“Yes boss,” said Maria, smirking and doing a little bow.

*  *  *  *

“What the hell was that?”

Maria stood at my desk. I had made her stand in front of me instead of sitting but neither that nor my tone had managed to wipe the smirk off her face.

“What was what?”

“Do you think that is acceptable behavior for a PA?”

She shrugged.

“It was fun.”

I shook my head. What the hell had Tom been thinking? Actually, as soon as I thought about it, it was obvious that Tom hadn’t been thinking at all, at least not with his brain.

”I’m going to fire you, Maria, but before I do that, I’m going to set you straight on a few things.”

“No you’re not,” she said, and tilted her head, smiling at me.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not going to fire me.”

“Who do you think you are girl?”

She smirked again.

“Someone who knows. About George.”

“George? I don’t know any George?”

“George Markham.”

George Markham. My God! How did she know about George Markham. I don’t have many regrets in my life, but that was one.

I should explain. George is, was, one of my father’s business associates, a very wealthy man, who made his money from shrewd investments and buyouts. I was in college and struggling. My father always said that when it came to college, I had to learn how to budget and survive on my own. It was an essential component to being successful in business. Of course, I didn’t take it seriously. I spent all my money on parties, on maintaining my pre-college lifestyle and when I went back to him for a loan, he refused to help.

That’s where George came in. I guess it was a sort of business relationship, though I didn’t like to think of it like that. He would pick me up outside the college, we’d go to a hotel or sometimes to one of his apartments and he would fuck me. He was a kind man, but he had a few kinks, a few fetishes. He liked me to dress up as a schoolgirl or a maid. Sometimes he tied me up and spanked me with a paddle. Fortunately our sessions never lasted long, because he could never hold himself back. I guess I can see that. The hot eighteen year old daughter he had been lusting after for months was suddenly lying on his bed dressed as a slutty schoolgirl.

It only lasted for the first year in college. I cut him off after that, sorted myself out and never looked back. I had assumed I would never hear that name again, particularly after he passed away through a heart attack at the age of 72. But now he was back. How the hell did she know?

“Let’s not waste any time,” she said. “Check your email.”

“What?”

“You are going to want to check it, believe me.”

Irritated, I flicked up my email on my phone. There was a new message, from Maria. It had a video attachment. With a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach, I opened the video. The footage was grainy at first, then the light improved and I gasped. It was me. I was lying, naked on the bed, then George, also naked, came into shot. He climbed up on the bed and began to kiss me. I snapped my phone shut.

“How the hell did you get that?”

Maria smiled, stepped closer and perched on the edge of the desk.

“Never mind how I got it. I’ve got photos too.”

“What do you want?”

Maria leaned across the desk. Her glistening lips were close to mine and her perfume was a mixture of expensive flowers and a musty lingering scent that I took to be Michael. I thought for one moment that she was going to kiss me. Instead she smiled again.

“You will come to my apartment tonight at ten.”

“No I won’t.”

Maria shook her head and slipped off my desk.

“Oh yes you will,” she said and wandered out of my office. I watched her slink away, her hips swaying, temporarily paralyzed with fear and anger. What was this sensation? For the first time in my life, I was not in control. And it was terrifying.

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Beast Me: Submit To The Minotaur

My name is Dana. At least, it used to be. I go by a different name these days. In fact, my life is different in every way. Now I get to fly all over the world, staying in the best hotels, attending top line scientific conferences, where I earn the respect of all my peers. Yeah, my life is pretty great. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how all of this happened.

It started around a year ago. Back then I was still Dana, a twenty-two year old research assistant to Dr Theseus Jones, a world-renowned expert on scientific ethics at the Anthromorph Institute. The Institute had been funded by the government and was Dr Jones’ personal project. His job was to enforce ethical standards in our area of science, and above all, to make sure that no-one dabbled in animal-human hybrids.

You may think that sounds a little far-fetched. I mean, animal-human hybrids? Well if there’s one thing you should know about the science world, it’s this: if you can think of an experiment, there will be someone somewhere who’s already trying it. In my months working at the Anthromorph Institute, I saw some unbelievable things, things that would blow your mind. But none of them compared to what happened when we investigated Dr Minos.

I was too junior to be involved in an investigation. In fact, throughout my nine months at the Institute, I had learned that I was too junior to be involved in anything, other than being the eye candy for the male scientists – which was all of them. Every time I walked into the lab, no matter how modest my clothing or how severely I’d tied my hair back, or how bulky my lab coat was, I could feel them all leering at me. Some days I just wanted to stand in the middle of the lab and scream at them. Hadn’t they ever seen a woman before?

Dr Jones, fortunately, wasn’t like that. I never caught him leering at me. On the other hand, he was rude, obnoxious and arrogant. Not just with me, but as the youngest member of the team, I seemed to bear the brunt of it. So when he walked into the lab, barked out my name and then disappeared back into his office one morning, I closed my eyes. With a feeling of dread, I trudged across the lab and walked into his office.

“You wanted to see me, Dr Jones?”

“I don’t want to see you, Miss Porter, but I have no choice. I’m heading out to carry out an enforcement order upstate and I need an assistant. Unfortunately, there is literally no-one else. These are the details. Get up to speed and meet me in the garage in an hour.”

With that, I was dismissed. Despite the familiar rudeness from Dr Jones, I was excited. An enforcement visit? That was where working for the Institute got serious. Every so often, a rogue unit or an unlicensed research facility failed to comply with an order so the FBI paid them a visit and one of our team got to go along. It was pretty damn exciting!

By the time I got down to the garage, I was pretty pumped, and I was up to speed on Dr Minos. A brilliant geneticist, dismissed from the Institute ten years previously, and rumored to be working on top secret borderline unethical projects, Dr Minos had been ordered to hand over his documentation a month ago, but had not complied.

His research facilities upstate were supposed to be some of the most impressive in the world, though no-one knew who was funding him. He had his own virtual kingdom, including labs, residential quarters, entertainment facilities and even his own airport. But Dr Minos had gone too far. Now we were going to enforce the order.

Oddly, though, there were no FBI personal around in the garage.

”Are we meeting the FBI there?” I asked Dr Jones.

“Not that I have to explain to the likes of you, Porter, but it won’t be necessary to have the FBI with us this time. I know Dr Minos. He is arrogant, but he isn’t foolish enough not to comply with a direct order from the Federal Government. Now, I would be grateful if you could ensure that your last inane comment is your last. I hate people talking when I drive.”

That was fine by me. Making conversation with Dr Jones was like trying to converse with a statue. An angry-looking statue. So I sat in the passenger seat as we sped out into the country heading north towards the research base known as the Maze.

We drove for an hour or so, then turned off the highway and headed down a gravel entrance road that must have been two miles or more before we arrived at a set of iron gates. Dr Jones got out the car and announced us and before he had resumed his seat, the gates had begun to creak and swing open, revealing the Maze.

It was seriously impressive. The path we followed was lined with immaculately trimmed hedges and statues of strange, mythical creatures: a dragon with several heads, a hideous old woman with the body of a snake, a swan with shapely curves and breasts. Up ahead of us was a huge country house, the kind that you only see in English films.

“Wow!” I muttered as we drew up in front of it.

We got out of the car and I hurried to catch up with Dr Jones. Before we had reached the top of the entrance steps, the massive oak doors opened. A blonde woman wearing an incredibly tight black body suit and shiny black boots, stood in the doorway.

“Dr Minos will see you now,” she said, then turned on her heels and led the way down a polished oak-lined corridor and then up a flight of stone stairs. At the top of the stairs, she opened a door and stood to one side, indicating that we should go in.

It was a kind of board room, dominated by a large desk at which sat Dr Minos. Around the room were portraits and pieces of art depicting all kinds of mythical creatures and myths and behind him a wide window showed a view of the whole site, including an enormous maze, that I presumed had given the place its name.

“Welcome Theseus, please do take a seat. And won’t you introduce me to your delightful assistant.”

“I’m Dana,” I said.

“Charmed,” said Dr Minos.

Dr Jones and I took the offered seats on the other side of the desk.

“Well, what can I do for you?”

“You know why we’re here,” said Dr Jones. “You have been given an order to hand over your research. It’s time to comply.”

Dr Minos smiled.

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“You forget,” said Dr Jones, “I have seen the files. I know what you are creating here, what you have created. That creature is an unethical abomination. Human animal hybrids are strictly in violation of Federal law.”

“Ah, but the creature to which you are referring is not an animal. Nor is it human. More importantly, I found it. I did not create it.”

“Where?”

Dr Minos smiled.

“Dr Jones, I know where to look. And if you spent more time on studying the wisdom of ancient civilizations, you would know too.”

“Enough,” snapped Dr Jones. “You will hand over the creature and you will hand over your research to me. Now.”

“Or?”

“Or the FBI will execute their warrant.”

“Hmm,” said Dr Minos. “You should know, Theseus, that I don’t take kindly to threats.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“That’s a shame. You really should.”

Dr Minos pressed a button on the desk. Dr Jones and his chair disappeared suddenly from view. There was a hole in the floor where he had been sitting. I heard a distant splash and then a burst of screaming before the trapdoor snapped back into place.

“What have you done?”

“I have simplified our situation. Dr Jones was boring me. I hope you don’t make the same mistake.”

I stood up and looked around me, but two guards were already coming into the room.

“Please take Dana to one of our rest rooms and make sure she is comfortable.”

One of the guards grabbed my arm and I tried to break free, but as I did so, the other guard pressed some kind of flannel onto my face. There was an overpowering chemical smell and I felt dizzy. The room began to spin and I closed my eyes.

*  *  *  *

I was awoken by the sound of a heavy door opening. Slowly, I adjusted to my surroundings. It was a prison cell, with a stone floor and a high barred window. I was lying on a bench, covered by a thin blanket.

“Dr Minos wants you to put this on. You have five minutes.”

The woman in black threw a flimsy garment across my bed and smirked at me.

“No! Let me go! You can’t keep me prisoner.”

“I suggest you do as you are told. Dr Minos has given me orders to have you eliminated if you refuse to comply. You have five minutes.”

She smirked again and I watched her strut back out of the room, the heels of her black knee-length boots striking the stone floor hard. The door closed behind her and I was alone.

I picked up the clothes that she had left behind. They were incredibly flimsy and skimpy, just a white chiffon dress that was off the shoulder and would barely reach my thighs and a pair of strappy sandals. There was no way that I wanted to dress like that. On the other hand, I remembered what had happened to Dr Jones, so reluctantly, I stripped out of my trousers and blouse and slipped into the white dress. It was so light and delicate, it felt as though I was not even wearing any clothes.

The door to my cell opened. This time it was Dr Minos, with the same two guards who had taken me from my office.

“Ah, a true goddess. Utterly delightful. Yes. He will like you. He will like you very much.”

“Who will like me? What do you mean? You can’t keep me here like this!”

“Ah, but I can, my dear,” said Dr Minos. “Take her,” he said. I backed away but there was nowhere to hide. One of them grabbed me roughly and the other pressed another flannel into my face. I struggled and tried to shout, but I couldn’t stop myself from losing consciousness again as I watched Dr Minos’s smiling face blur and fade to black.

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Coach Kennedy: Forced Lesbian Submission

My name is Marcia Deacon. Remember that name, because you’ll be hearing from me very soon. This season I’m playing for one of the biggest teams in NCAA basketball and after that I’m going to be tearing up the WNBA. I’m going to be huge.

I sound really arrogant, don’t I? Good. That’s because I am. My arrogance is the best kind though, the kind that’s based on talent. Oh yeah, a lot of the girls in the game hate me. Well you know what they say about haters, don’t you. I tell people I’m good, because I’m good. Really good. I doubt if you’ve seen a player like me in the women’s game in your whole life.

I didn’t always talk this way. In fact, not so long ago I was pretty different. I guess I’ve come a long way in just a few months. And I have one woman to thank.

*  *  *  *

I was always naturally gifted. I started playing on my driveway. At the age of seven I was the best player in my street. By the age of ten, I was the best in my school and by the age of sixteen, I was the best in the state. The sport has always come naturally to me. I’m 5’8” and kind of gangly and uncoordinated and clumsy too. I’m like one of those creatures that only comes alive in one environment. Put me on a date or working in a restaurant or tidying my room and I’m hopeless. I break things, I fall over, I tread on people’s toes. But get me on a court and I come alive. Dribbling, passing, shooting; I had it all, and I could hold my own in the paint too.

I held the school and state scoring records every year right up to eleventh grade. My form fell off a bit that year, and at the time I didn’t really know why. I was still the best player on the varsity team, but I was missing a few shots and didn’t feel quite right out there. Still, no-one thought it would last and when my senior year rolled round, I was ready to go again.

Senior year. New challenges, new opportunities and a new coach. Coach Kennedy. She was a last minute deal, a replacement for old Coach Connor, who’d retired the previous spring. We’d heard rumors; that she was tough, that she used to beat up her students, that she was totally lesbian, but no-one really took it seriously, that is, until our first session.

We were all gathered in the hall, ready for practice when the door slammed open and Coach Kennedy walked in. Strode in, would be a more accurate assessment. She was tall, tanned with bright blonde hair tied back in a fiercely tight ponytail. Tight was probably the best word to describe her. Tight hair, tight body, tight little shorts, tight tee.

“Right then ladies, let me tell you something about yourselves. I gather you think you’re good. Well let me explain exactly why everything you have achieved so far is worthless.”

And that’s what she did. She stood on the spot, like a cross between a super model and a Marines drill sergeant and told us all how useless we were, how fat, how slow, how lazy, how weak and how pathetic we were. Then she told us that the only way she believed in was total obedience. We were to do exactly what she said, when she said it and anyone who disagreed would be off the team. When she’d finished, she looked at us all and shook her head.

Things didn’t get any better. Training was horrible. Endless, punishing physical endurance work, push-ups and forfeits if we missed a shot and a constant stream of shouting and abuse and more shouting. By the time of the first game, we were on the brink of breaking down.

We lost our first game 85-60. We lost our next two, by increasing margins. By the time we were 0-5 and staring at the worst season in the school’s history, the girls decided that someone had to confront her and they decided that it had to be me.

“No way!” I said.

“But you’re the best player on the team,” said Hannah.

“You have to do it,” said CC. “If you don’t this season is going to be a disaster.”

“It’s already a disaster,” I said. “Confronting her won’t make any difference.”

I looked up. All the other girls were looking at me. I could see the desperation in their eyes. I wasn’t the only one with ambitions, and even those girls who wouldn’t go far in college ball still wanted to end their senior year on a winning team. They would only get one shot at this, after all.

I sighed.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

The truth was, I was terrified, and I didn’t feel any less terrified when, half an hour later, I stood in Coach Kennedy’s office, waiting for her to finish on her computer.

“Right. Deacon. What do you want?”

“I…that is…”

“Get on with it, girl, I’m busy.”

“I…me and the girls, the team, we…well we don’t think it’s working and we…”

My voice trailed off as she glared, icily at me. There was a silence, which lasted about thirty seconds. Then she stood up, suddenly and I flinched.

“I’ve finished here today,” she said. “Are you ready to go.”

“I…er yes.”

“Good. I will give you a lift to my house. We can talk more about your concerns there.”

“Oh…well….I…”

It didn’t really feel right but I kind of felt obliged to go with her. I mean I had started the conversation and anyway she had the tone of voice that you don’t argue with.

She didn’t talk at all as we drove to her house, which was in the wealthy Green Acres suburb. In fact, her house was more of a mansion. She showed me into a huge reception area, and then through the biggest living room your’ve ever seen, through a big kitchen and then opened another door. As I stepped through the door, there was the sound of lights going on and I found myself standing on the edge of a court.

“You have a court in your house?”

“Of course.”

I looked around in wonder. It wasn’t as big as the school court, but it was cleaner and professional looking and even had benches along the side.

“I have a reputation for finding young talent and team owners pay me well for it. I work hard, and if you work hard, you get the rewards.”

Back in the living room, still thinking about the court, I sat on one of her leather sofas and tried to compose the speech I was going to make. I was still thinking about it when she thrust a drink into my hand.

“Drink this,” she said, “It’s an energy drink. Replenishes what’s important.”

I looked at the fizzing green juice which didn’t seem particularly wholesome but she was standing over me so I drank it in three gulps.

“Good girl,” she said, smiling.

I didn’t like her smile, mainly because I had never seen it before and it was kind of sinister. I didn’t have long to think about it though because not long after I felt the juice slide down my throat, the room began to spin, and the light faded. My eyelids began to feel incredibly heavy and I wanted nothing more at that moment to lie down, put my head on her cool leather sofa and sleep.

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Underground Submission: A Historical Interracial Menage

It was one of those storms that made the floorboards creak in sympathy for the roof and the windows, straining to hold the framework of the house upright against the gales of wind and torrents of rain that pummeled it mercilessly.

“Annemarie?”

I look up from where I’m trying to patch a hole in my husband’s breeches by the flickering candlelight of a tired flame, and see the culprit himself, young, clean shaven, and handsome, come into the room. He drapes one of the many blankets I’ve crocheted over my shoulders, planting a kiss on my head as he does so.

“Are you all right in here all by yourself? You should come to bed soon.”

I feel the usual flicker of annoyance that he gives me whenever he tries to be concerned and attentive; I am the oldest of five, all girls, and am accustomed to giving the orders and recommendations more than taking them. My mother warned me that this could make my marriage hazardous and unpleasant if I didn’t learn to curb my impulses, but indeed, that’s why I’ve come out here in the first place—to get away from my handsome, wealthy husband who annoys me so frequently with his idle chatter and unsatisfying attempts to care for me. If you really want to help, I want to tell him, you could offer to help me with the household chores once in a while, or take an interest in the house accounts. But these feel like impulsive things to say, the way they rise up inside me and press against the inside of my lips, so instead I say nothing at all. Of course, I know there’s another reason he wants me to come to bed early.

The wedding was a beautiful spectacle, as we rural Ohioans are wont to have. My family, ecstatic that not only was their oldest daughter marrying but marrying well, drank deeply, while George’s family sipped from fluted glasses and looked at my figure, swaying tipsily beneath the layers of white, to reassure themselves that if their son hadn’t married the richest he could, he had, at the very least, married the most beautifully.

My mother did my hair, long and startlingly black, herself, painstakingly organizing the wild curls and swooping it up and around my head like a nest of interconnected crowns. My eyes blazed an eerie blue against my pale, creamy skin, and the effect truly was mesmerizing on our guests; I thought George was going to fall over when I entered the little church and turned at the top of the aisle to begin my walk toward him. Only his little brother seemed unimpressed, already married to an elegant blonde woman whose bright brown eyes followed me curiously long after I’d passed their pew on my walk to the altar. They live just down the street from us now, Mary and Johnathon. The brothers run a successful general store in the middle of our small town, Mt. Vernon, and Mary and I are still settling into co-managing the store when our husbands aren’t there—I’m not used to deferring to another woman (besides my own mother).

The fire crackles on our hearth as I lose myself in these moody thoughts, wrapping the light-blue blanket around my thin figure. I am tired, and I do want to get out of this uncomfortable dress with all its petticoats and heavy layers. I flick my slippers off and play with the material absentmindedly as George sits own in the rocking chair opposite me with a barely audible sigh. I repress my own; maybe if he was half as proactive in bed as he was about trying to get me in it, I would be more eager to go. I upheld the expectation on my end—I was, technically, a virgin on our wedding night. But like any other arrangement, the success of our marriage lies in the technicalities, and my mother has also told me to let him take the lead between the sheets.

“Yes, he chose you, but you also chose him,” she told me sternly the first afternoon we took our afternoon tea together both as married women. “Now you need to either make do with who you have or find another outlet.”

I’d raised my eyebrows at her, shocked. “Mother…”

She’d waved her hand, her still-beautiful face open and warm with honesty for me, her favorite daughter. “Sweetheart, times may change, but some things never do. The world will tell you that there are expectations and boundaries that you must conform to, but really all anyone expects is appearances. Never forget that.” She’d paused and I’d interjected, sarcastically, “So you’re advising me to keep an underground railroad of husbands, per say?” Her eyes flashed green-blue the way they do when she gets passionate about something. “I’m advising you to always remember that women have always relied on an underground community of support to get through a life dictated by men.”

“AnnMARIE.”

I jerk out of my reverie; I have no idea how long George has been trying to get my attention.

“Sorry, dear, what is it?”

“I’m going to bed.” His tone is sulky and irritated, and I rise with him as he goes to leave the room, which takes him by surprise.

“Would you mind helping me out of my dress?” I drop my voice into a low, sexy purr while keeping my eyes cast down demurely. I feel him go rigid beside me with excitement, and allow him to tow me eagerly towards our bedroom with the enormous master bed, and fret and worry at the knots that keep my dress tightly fastened to me until I finally pretend that I can’t wait to have him, I must have him now, and I allow him to take me up my voluminous skirt, lying back on the bed in my clothes like our passion is enough to burn the clothes right off my body. Idly, I wonder what it feels like for him as he’s thrusting in and out of me with an unchanging speed and intensity. He finishes in a predictable burst that makes my breath catch, and then it’s over, and I call our maid to help release me from the dress my husband has made a prison with his fumbling fingers.

Her own dark fingers are deft and clever, loosening the knots within moments, which allows me to take large, expansive breaths of air for the first time since she laced me into the dress this morning. She pats me on the back as she gathers up the dress to take away for cleaning, and I turn to go back to my bed, where George has already fallen asleep. Although it’s still raining, I suddenly think I can make out a strange tapping on the front door. I turn back to the door and instantly know I’m right, something is making a noise amidst the natural thrumming of the rain, because the maid’s face is frozen in a strange of fear and feigned nonchalance.

“Never you mind, Missus,” she murmurs, nodding to the bed. “Aye’ll check thu door n’ lit you knaw if there’s anythun you gotta concern yerself wit.”

But her eyes, dark and luminescent in the lamplight of the bedroom, glow with a barely-contained excitement, and I know there’s something she wants to hide from me, badly. I eye her for a full minute before acquiescing to her wishes, going and laying down on the bed with my husband and pretending to roll over and fall asleep quickly. I hear the door close, imagine her footsteps padding slowly away, and then I sit up and slide back out of bed, my green cotton nightshift whispering along my ankles as I peek through the keyhole in the door to make sure that she’s not waiting to see if I’m still up. I exit the room quickly and close the door softly, so softly, behind me, and creep around the side of the bannister so I have the most direct view of the front door. Even though I’m anticipating something out of the ordinary, I have to quell a gasp of fear when the front door is opened and two young black men are ushered inside. One is clearly a relative; the maid flings her arms around him and covers him with the types of kisses that make teenage boys of all colors squirm and protest. This young man stoically waits, however, and when his mother has finished greeting him, presents his friend, who takes the maid’s hand and murmurs a couple words to her that make her whip around in fear, checking to make sure they are, really, alone. No one sees me crouched in the shadows upstairs, so they relax as she guides them through the room and out, away from the staircase and toward a different part of the house.

Safe in the shadows, I have no illusions about what’s happening; I just wonder for how long it has been operating here under my husband’s nose. Our maid is a relative of one of the many at my brother-in-law’s house…

I know I should go to bed, let this happen and think about it or talk about it with someone later. I have no issues with it; like many Northerners, I believe slavery is wrong. However, it’s not something I’ve ever discussed with my husband, and something warns me that his feelings are much more conservative on this point than I would care to deal with.

I slip downstairs silently, walking by memory in the shadows of the early hours of the night, listening to the footsteps of the little group up ahead and grateful that the rain has slackened to mere background noise by this point. The thick carpeting is damp beneath my feet and I know I’m on the right track; how long have they been in the rain, I wonder. Suddenly, I bump into someone and there’s a shriek that’s quickly cut off. Someone grabs me and roughly pins my arms behind my back, hissing, “It’s a woman!” There’s a pause, a flash of flame, and a candle is held up to my face by the maid. “Missus,” she says slowly. “Please.”

Standing with the little group, I see that the man beside the woman is the one she embraced so lovingly; he must be her son. The one behind me, then, must be the friend. I don’t strain against his grip, and I only look at her. “It’s okay,” I say, quietly, though my heart is hammering and I feel a sharp jolt of disloyalty, to what I don’t know. I know what I believe, I have my convictions, yet the darkness and lateness and threatening grip of the man behind me make me feel uncertain and something else I can’t quite place. When he releases me and moves beside his friend though, I see their eyes rake over me, sharply, and suddenly I’m very aware of the thinness of my cotton shift and the hardness of my rounded, full tits at this most insolent scrutiny from two runaway slaves. I draw myself up to my full height, which barely clears either of their shoulders, and glare at them. The maid cuffs her son and snarls a warning to him that’s universal—yes, she’s beautiful, no, you can’t have her, focus on the problem at hand. And yet, I’m enjoying myself. I grasp her hand briefly as she leads the men away and murmur for her to let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, and I feel the men’s surprise even as they walk away from me.

I return to my cool side of the bed, heart aflutter and a strange tightness in my belly, my husband snoring softly beside me. All night, I lie in my bed, looking out the window as the sky lightens through the shades of the morning, filtering in pink and orange with little dust particles swirling in the air. I dress slowly, so that I don’t have to spend much time with George before he’s headed off to the store for the day. I don’t have to be there until lunchtime. I’m determined to meet the men who came into the house so quietly last night, properly. I want to know their stories and where they come from and feel like I’m a part of something bigger than a small town where I’ve already accomplished all I ever will. But the maid is nowhere to be found. She must know I’m looking for her, and though I’m irritated, I can’t help but sympathize with her. Those men were clearly at a loss without the discipline of a mother or woman figure, a tingling sensation goes through me as I remember the way they looked at me so shamelessly through the darkness. I go down into the cellar to begin my search for the men, but as soon as I open the door I realize they’re already down there. Their deep voices cut off as soon as the door opens but I can’t help but bark a laugh at their insolence and stupidity—we seem to be joined in our motives, and I try to push away my mother’s cautionary voice in my head as I descend the stairs, warning me that this goes beyond even what she would condone.

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The Bimbo Wormhole

In the world of science, Ned Green is a towering colossus, one of the best minds of his generation. In the world of dating, however, he’s a complete loser, doomed it seems to a lifetime of celibacy, until one night he makes the scientific breakthrough of a lifetime. Ned unravels the secrets of one of the Universe’s great mysteries, and opens the door to a world of unimaginable pleasure.

Ned Green wandered into his laboratory in the depths of the Moore Research Faculty and walked straight into the door. He was always walking into doors. It had been a regular occurrence: at school, at college, and even in the tiny apartment where he lived a few blocks away from the research facility. It wasn’t that he was stupid, in fact, quite the opposite. He was one of the finest minds of his generation, at least, he was according to Professor Lucius. It’s just that he usually had more important things on his mind than checking whether doors were open.

Sometimes he was thinking about quantum mechanics, or string theory, or the origins of the universe. And sometimes he was thinking about Jenna.

Jenna lived in the next apartment to his. Jenna was taller than him. She was toned, blonde, and utterly gorgeous. She was a fitness instructor and he usually bumped into her when she was setting out for her morning run or coming back from the gym. In fact he had never seen her without lycra clinging to her tight, luscious body.

He only knew that her name was Jenna because he had seen her mail on the shelf in the hallway. Jenna Kuzsinski. So far, he had only managed to say “Hi!” on five occasions. Jenna had not replied. In fact, she had never spoken to him. He had heard her speak, in fact, he had heard her shout, things like, “Oh my God!” and “Yes, yes, yes!” and “Oh fuck yeah, harder, harder!” but that was when she was with her boyfriend and he, Ned, had been kneeling on his bed, with his ear pressed to the bedroom wall.

It’s fair to say that Ned was a little frustrated. That was hardly surprising. At twenty he had told himself there was plenty of time to lose his virginity, and that the right girl would soon come along. Now he was twenty-nine and there was no sign of the right girl turning up. Jenna certainly wasn’t the right girl. She was the wrong girl in every way. Her toned, muscular thighs alone could probably snap him in half. He would still give anything to be naked with her.

Ned wasn’t unattractive. He just wasn’t attractive. More importantly, he had no idea how to talk to girls. None. He was geeky and awkward, gangly and angular. Being thin was better than being overweight, he supposed, although he would have given anything to be a muscled god, just to see how it felt. He’d once tried to lift weights, and had even laid out an elaborate work-out plan. But after half an hour of heaving and pulling and pushing in the college gym he was bored. He didn’t understand how people could use their time like that: hour after hour after hour doing nothing but monotonous movements. Life was too short.

Besides, it wasn’t the body that mattered, it was the personality. Ned had plenty of that, but it was not the kind of personality to which girls were attracted, it was the kind of personality to which multi-billion dollar medical and scientific research corporations were attracted. Admittedly, there were plenty of women in science, but his early experiences with girls had created such a phobia of the opposite sex that sometimes he started to sweat and shake if he was even in the same room as a woman.

Of all those early experiences, there was one in particular that had traumatized him. It happened at party organized at Freefield High School. Someone had smuggled in alcohol and the party ended up a chaotic mess of fighting, crying and at least two school expulsions. He missed most of it. He had turned up, stood inside the school hall, suffered a hail of abuse for being there, for wearing glasses, for being a virgin, and retreated, as he usually did, to the janitor’s room, though not before sneaking out a bottle of beer.

He sat there for an hour or two, sipping the foul tasting beer, thinking that at least he would be going home after dark with the smell of alcohol on his breath. He was shaken from a prolonged daydream by the sudden opening of the door. A girl sprawled across the floor of the janitor’s office. It was Chelsea.

Ah, Chelsea. Chelsea Wolff. The hottest girl in the school. Tanned, lithe, with natural long blonde wavy hair; when Chelsea twisted and gyrated in her lycra cheerleader’s outfit, no-one, not even the players were interested in the football game. And there she was, hauling herself to her feet, her breasts nearly spilling out of her tight black dress, her bare thighs hypnotizing Ned as he sat, speechless.

Frozen though he was, he had managed to stir himself to get up and by hooking her under her arms, pulled her to her feet. Even to this day he could still sense her intoxicating fruity perfume, mingling with vodka fumes.

She struggled in his arms, and tried to turn round as he was attempting to help her to a seat at the desk in the janitor’s office. For one glorious moment, he was holding her, her breasts crushed against him, her lips allowing her soft breath to escape onto his cheek. He genuinely thought that she was about to kiss him. And then she vomited all over him.

She staggered backwards, pointed at him and roared with laughter, called him a loser, and walked, unsteadily, out of the janitor’s office.

That was just one of a string of minor humiliations and setbacks that convinced him that there was no way he would ever be with a woman, and that he had better get used to it. His problem was compounded by the fact that his taste in women was ridiculously unrealistic. To put it bluntly, he was attracted to bimbos. Blonde, dizzy, big-breasted women: goddesses who would never in a million years even look in his direction, unless it was to vomit over him. He didn’t want to be with any other kind of woman, but had no chance of ever dating someone he was attracted to. Yes, Chelsea had screwed him up badly.

So instead, he had poured his frustrations into science. Science had always been his friend. In the world of science he was not a loser. In fact, he was a giant. He had graduated with honors, sailed through his post-graduate work and was now working as a researcher for the Moore Corporation – a conglomerate that was busily buying up all the most innovative tech companies on the planet, while recruiting the best and brightest talent.

Ned was officially working on quantum computing for a big commercial contract, but in the evening he used the laboratory facilities to conduct his own experiments. The director of the facility, Professor Lucius, gave him plenty of latitude as long as he completed his work to the required specifications, which Ned always did.

His current spare time activity was wormholes. Ned subscribed to the theory that an infinite number of alternate dimensions existed. He was certain of it. It was the only explanation that made sense, which threaded everything mankind had discovered about the Universe together. According to Ned’s theory, every choice we made created another alternate dimension, in which the opposite choice was played out. He was also convinced that it would be possible to travel from one dimension to another.

That was what he was working on the night he made his breakthrough.

It happened suddenly. He had been tinkering with the capacitor housing and trying to find different methods to launch the wormhole initiator without overloading the system, when he accidentally transposed the wrong circuit.

A flash of light blazed through the laboratory, throwing Ned to the floor. When he stood, he saw a perfect circle of darkness, ringed with white and purple light, hovering in the middle of the laboratory. He approached it cautiously, walking around it. It wasn’t a projection, or an illusion. It was real.

He stretched out a finger and watched as his fingertip disappeared into the blackness. He pulled it out again quickly. Could this be it, he wondered. Was this the wormhole? Had he really done it?

This was the moment he had been preparing for. The big decision. Did he take the risk and step into the wormhole or did he sit back and let the moment pass? He shook his head. What did he have to lose?

Cautiously, he stepped forward, lifting his foot and putting into the hole. It disappeared, and he could feel a force, a sucking that was pulling him in. He lifted up his other foot to step fully into the hole and instantly felt darkness close around him. Everything was completely pitch black and he felt a horrible lurching in his stomach. He felt weightless, as though he was drifting in space. And then, he realized that the darkness was tangible. It was hard, wooden. He stretched out with his arms and a rectangle of light broke through the dark.

He was in the wardrobe of his apartment.

Stepping out, he looked around. Everything was as it had been when he left that morning. The Spiderman poster. The collection of unwashed mugs. The scattered clothes. Tentatively, he walked through his apartment, opened the door and stood in the corridor. There was nothing at all unusual about it.

That was when he heard footsteps on the creaking stairs.

It was Jenna. She was coming back from the gym. He turned to go back into his apartment, to hide. The door wouldn’t open. He had locked himself out.

Left with no choice, he stood, leaning on the door, trying not to shake too much as Jenna approached. She wore a tight white sports top and tiny black lycra shorts. Her thighs glistened a little in the light of the corridor, and her face was flushed. She glanced at him, briefly, then unlocked her apartment door.

As she put the key in the lock, Ned remembered. Of course. He kept a spare key under the carpet outside the apartment. He clicked his fingers, a habit of his, usually reserved for moments of realization and enlightenment. He bent down, pulled back the carpet and took the silver key. When he rose to his feet he realized that Jenna was standing in front of him.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. She was standing closer to him than any woman had ever stood. He stammered something that sounded like ‘Hi,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“Do you want to come in for a coffee?”

Ned wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder and looked at him, biting her lip.

“Er, no thanks, I’ve already had coffee,” he blurted. He scrambled with the key in the lock, opened his apartment door and hurried inside.

“What the hell was that?” he muttered. “And why didn’t I say yes?”

His heart still pounding, he looked around the room. None of this made sense. Had he really travelled to another dimension? He opened the wardrobe. There, he could make out the purple and white ring through which he had stepped. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the wardrobe. A second later he was standing in the laboratory.

“It worked!” he said out loud, clicking his fingers.

He had so many questions. Nothing in the alternate dimension seemed different. So which dimension was it? Obviously, one where he had made many of the same decisions as this one. That would explain the apartment, and Jenna living next door. Although it didn’t explain why she said hello to him, or why she invited him in for coffee.

Maybe he was more attractive in the other dimension?

He took another deep breath. He had to explore more. He needed more evidence. He stepped into the black ring and closed his eyes.

This time the wardrobe door was already open. He stepped out of it, into the apartment and as he was adjusting to his surroundings, heard a knock at the door. He quickly closed the wardrobe and walked over to open his apartment door. It was Jenna.

She was wearing a ridiculously tight red off-shoulder dress that revealed most of her tanned, gorgeous thighs.

“Hi,” she said, breathlessly. “Can I come in?”

Ned panicked.

“No, sorry. I, I, I’m busy at the moment.”

He closed the door.

Standing with his back against the door, he closed his eyes. You idiot! Why did you say no? But, more importantly, what the hell was going on. He walked over to the mirror, half expecting to see a muscled athlete. But no, he was exactly the same: tall, gawky and pale.

What was going on? He tried to retrace his steps, looking for clues. What was different? Initially Jenna hadn’t been interested in him. That was normal. Then she changed.

Something dawned on Ned.

Years ago, at the height of his sexual desperation, he had read a book on hypnosis. It was a highly dubious book, suggesting that you could hypnotize women into falling in love with you. Ned had thrown the book away as it was unethical, creepy and worst of all, didn’t even work. But he remembered that the author had suggested that once a woman had been hypnotized, it was important to have a trigger that could bring about the state of hypnosis at the whim of the hypnotist. The author had suggested a finger click.

Taking another deep breath, he stepped out of the apartment and knocked on Jenna’s door. Within two seconds, she opened it. She was still wearing the red dress and seemed delighted to see him, smiling broadly.

Nervously, he lifted up his fingers and clicked them.

Instantly, Jenna stopped smiling. She frowned, and then reached down as though to cover her legs.

“What do you want?” she said, aggressively.

Ned clicked his fingers again.

Her expression softened.

“Hey. Do you want to come in?”

Ned’s heart was pounding. He nodded. Almost instantly, Jenna grabbed him by his laboratory coat and pulled him inside. In her apartment, she pressed her body right up against him, crushing her breasts into his chest.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said, breathlessly.

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Casting Julia – A Two Book Series

This is an excerpt from book one of Casting Julia

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that I was going to be an actress. In nearly all of the pictures my mother has framed of me in our little ranch house, I’m in the middle of delivering my lines. Looking at the pictures, I don’t really remember myself as a child; I remember the characters I played and think about what I would do differently if I were to be cast as them now.

There’s me as the Good Witch of the South in sixth grade when we did The Wizard of Oz, standing on a platform that had shuddered and shook every time I’d stepped onto it. Me as the Fairy Godmother in third grade when we put on Cinderella. My first lead, as Snow White freshman year, when I beat out all the upperclassmen. That was a weird one; there had been problems with the legalities of putting on the play and instead they’d modernized the storyline and changed the plot. I got to throw an apple at my arch nemesis every day for weeks during rehearsal, so I was really okay with it.

“Julia?”

My mother walks into the room and takes in the scene, me hanging upside down off the edge of our faded green couch, long legs hooked over the top, short denim summer skirt riding up around my waist, hair glowing fiery red in the sunlight filtering through the front window.

“Yeah?”

She eyes my wanton position on the couch for a moment before speaking. I roll my eyes at her.

“I’m just running to the store for a few things, do you need anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m good,” I say, sitting up and feeling the blood rush from my face.

“What are you going to do today?”

“I don’t know, Mom,” I sigh, sinking back onto the couch in a pile of long, pale limbs. “There’s an audition in the city for a new crime T.V. series, I was thinking of maybe checking that out.”

“Do you want me to take you?”

“No, I don’t think I’ll get it,” I say, carefully avoiding her eye. “And it’s just a small part, so I can go when you get back.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

The front door opens and closes and then I’m alone in the house. Well, mostly. Our fluffy gray cat, Minnie, jumps up on my lap and rubs her face against my hand. I stroke her soft fur absentmindedly, watching Mom drive away in the minivan leftover from her marriage and dreams of a big family.

I get up from the couch and place Minnie on the warm impression left by my firm, little butt. She curls up happily and doesn’t think twice as I pad upstairs and begin to get my bag together for this audition that I’ve lied about so carefully to my mother.

First of all, I’ve already auditioned, and they’ve chosen me. Second, it’s not a small part. I’ll be playing the romantic interest to the boss of a big-time crime organization. The only caveat is the role itself—I’ve played shy girls before, and identify as an introvert, so that’s not a problem. The problem is that my romantic interest is into BDSM and I’m his “sub.” There’s no reason to feel guilty, I tell myself sternly as I go upstairs. You’re eighteen, and this is what comes with adult roles. Time to do your research. In my room, painted a soft lavender and covered with proof that I did indeed have a happy childhood despite also having a dad who ran out on me, I gather up the materials that I’ve been told I’ll need to become familiar with. A whip, harsh metal handcuffs. Fluffy pink handcuffs. Fluffy navy-blue handcuffs. A rather frightening-looking chain. A fake-wooden plastic stick. Black lingerie. All of this goes into my backpack and is carefully covered by a sweatshirt and script from another audition, in case Mom sees the inside of the bag for any reason. I’m dressed unassumingly in simple jean shorts and a black T-shirt, both of which emphasize the pearly paleness of my skin and blaze of red that is my hair. My disproportionately-large tits strain against the soft fabric of my T-shirt, brushing together softly as I pace impatiently, waiting for Mom to get back.

I check the address I’m looking for one more time on my phone. The message is from someone named Jacqueline who is a practicing female-dom. I found her on Craigslist, offering classes in exchange for a fee and the promise of mentioning her to other aspiring doms. I told her I need someone to teach me to be a “Sub” and she laughed, her rough voice crackling over the phone.

“Good, that seems like it will be naturally easier for you.”

I’m still not sure if I should feel offended.

The front door opens, and I take a deep breath, gathering up my backpack carefully before heading downstairs.

“Heading out?” Mom gives me a quick kiss on the cheek as I nod. “All right, drive safe.”

In the car, I put my hair back into a simple ponytail and put on my black sunglasses. It’s a beautiful summer day and feels really strange to be following an unknown route to an unknown house, and as I get closer I get more and more nervous.

The house doesn’t look anything like I was expecting; it looks normal. Blue with white trim. Trees in the yard, lawn recently mown. I park and walk up to the door, knock hesitantly. A completely-normal looking woman answers the door. She’s in her thirties, with long, dirty-blonde hair, and sharp green eyes that appraise me casually as she invites me in.

“Nice to meet you, Heather.”

We sit in her living room, she in a simple red summer dress and me in my girl’s summer uniform. She pours me tea and hands me a cup before settling back herself.

“So, what do you want to know?”

“Ex-excuse me?” Nothing about this is beginning the way I expected. I’m not sure what, exactly, I expected, but it wasn’t drinking tea in a random woman’s home with a backpack full of miscellaneous sex items sitting quietly at my feet. Jacqueline smiles patiently.

“Darling, I knew right when you walked in that you’re the type of girl who needs a lot of lead up to the main event. You’re an actress, right? Probably takes you absolutely forever to memorize lines, but man, when you’ve got them, you’ve got them?”

My mouth falls open. How did she know, just from meeting me two minutes ago, that that’s exactly the type of actress I am? I’ve been told over and over that it will be the making or breaking of me, but never have I had anyone assess that side of me so quickly and so casually.

She smiles at my response. “First lesson: part of being a good partner in BDSM, whether it’s as a dom or a sub, is being able to read your partner, and quickly. For the record,” she added, casting her eyes over my body, “I think this director was right to cast you. You have all the equipment to be a great sub. Crime show, big bad boss side story, right?”

I nod, and finally find my voice. “I’ve played roles alongside men before, I just don’t know, exactly…” I break off and rummage in my backpack abruptly, pulling out the real script from the bottom and handing it to her so she can see a section I’ve highlighted. “How do I act this out, the right way?”

She scans the lines, brow furrowed. “You’ve had sex, right?”

“Yeah…”

She looks up at me, sharply. “But not much?”

I drop my gaze, unable to meet her tawny eyes.

“Ooookay. Well.” She rises and go to a bookshelf, but instead of books, I now see there’s tons and tons of DVDs. She withdraws six or seven and turns back to me.

“Homework for tonight.”

“We haven’t even had a lesson today!” The words spring out of my mouth before I can stop them, and she laughs outright.

“Careful dear, that’s a dom attitude right there.”

She rearranges herself back on the chair with her tea and sips contentedly.

“Before you’ll understand anything I have to teach you, you need to understand the different angles of sex. Or at least be exposed to them. Come back here tomorrow night, at eleven. Your first day shooting isn’t until Monday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. See you later, then.”

Somehow, she’s dismissed me without moving an inch. I rise uncertainly, pull out my wallet. She waves it away. “I’m more interested in you as a project at the moment. Don’t worry about that for now.”

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Want even more?  Grab book two HERE

No Publish No Problem

I decided not to publish any stories in the month of August.  This doesn’t mean I have stopped writing.

I did this for a two reasons.

  1. August sales were getting off to a slow start
  2. I wanted a few books “in the chamber” for when I started publishing again in September.

By having a few books in the chamber I have the liberty to take a week off if necessary during the next couple of months.  It just made sense to hoard a few stories for the month of August since this is generally one of the worse selling months for self publishing author’s, and these books are better served being released during busy months.

The funny thing is, sales have gone up since I made this decision.  I haven’t released a single book, yet my sales are on track to beat July.  Of course by saying this I probably just jinxed myself, but oh well.  It’s still good to know I can leave the self publishing game alone at times and still bring in sales.